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her hand like a girl, although she’s hardly that. ‘Sir.’
    I stand at the kitchen door, watching them. Watching his back, the expansion of his ribs at a breath as he says something else to Mary. And I want to kill him for what he has done. I am here for the wishbone, though, for Gret, at her behest. We are fond of a secret wishbone, my sister and I, small rituals of hope; and we need one now: she remains lying wretched on my bed, refusing to speak of what just occurred, except to say: I’ll be all right in a little while, Ryldy . Because he has done this before and so you know how it goes? How many times? When did it begin? I think I might know, and the picture I am assembling in my mind is a horror worse than anything I could have imagined. He’s been odd in his temper since October – you know, with all the goings-on with the Liberal League. With his election as treasurer of the Bathurst branch of the Free Trade Party; yes, I know: his self-admiration must have swelled with his success, and with it comes sharper cruelties: that’s always been his way. Don’t worry, Ryldy. He’ll soon go back to ignoring my existence, you know what he’s like. He frightened me this time, that’s all. I’m only so sore and moaning around now because my whatsits are so late, I’m all emotional and tender inside. How long since your menses should have come? Oh, three weeks, four … I’m sure that she does not know what this might mean. And I’m not going to explain it to her. Yet.
    The fowl carcass is sitting in a dish by the stove still. Good. I could step out from this threshold and snatch it. But I am transfixed by Uncle Alec. Leering at Mary. She’s a gristly old boiler, our housekeeper, but not unattractive. He’s a small neat man made large by his own vainglory and the like dimensions of this town. Purportedly handsome, in appearance and character. What a man he is to take such interest in the running of his household, what taste, what style; what a man he is to have such affable relations with his underlings. How very modern. How very liberal. Our Man for the New Age, the electioneering pamphlet will say. He smooths his moustache, leaning over a pot on the stove, peering down the muslin at Mary’s décolletage as he does. Does he make connexion with her, too?
    Don’t worry, Ryldy, honestly. I’ll be all right. My sister’s ability to disconnect from the facts is even more advanced than mine. What is this black dream we live inside? When will we wake?
    Prince is barking incessantly outside, and has been since I left Gret a minute or two ago. It must be the fellow come with the fireworks, waiting at the gate. What a man Alec Howell is to treat his guests to the spectacle of a firework display for this most special of New Year’s Eves. Twenty-eight sky rockets, no less, so the entire district cannot fail to know about it.
    â€˜And what is for the main course?’ he is asking Mary now, sampling the anchovy paste for the late supper canapés, continuing to flirt with her. He knows very well what is for the main: he instructed it down to the last crumb a week ago.
    â€˜The lamb, Mr Howell.’ She flutters her eyelashes. She makes my stomach turn. ‘With the ’aricots and my special roast parsnips and taties – and the minced tongue croquettes of course. All just as you like ’em, sir.’
    â€˜I had better like them, Mary,’ he teases and grins: a small, neat wolf. ‘Or I’ll mince you.’
    I’ll mince you. There’s a knife lying by the mutton tongues on the table behind them. I could pick it up and drive it into his back. Would I have the strength to get through? Possibly not. You’ll never be a surgeon, Berylda , he reminds me at every opportunity, not merely to state the obvious that women are not permitted into that field, but to belittle me, gratuitously, because he can. I will never be